The Death of Baldr
by Lono
Summary: Much like the Norse god Baldr, no one thought to ask the mistletoe not to harm Sherlock.


**A/N 1**: This is for my dear friends **navybabe** and **becandidbeautifully **(who doesn't actually have a account, so she may never know of this story's existence. I could email it to her, instead, but that sounds like a lot of effort).

To everyone else: Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it, and a wonderful rest of the year to all who don't!

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Death of Baldr<em>**

* * *

><p><strong><em>5<em>****_th_****_ December_**

* * *

><p>"Are you trying to ward off vampires, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock Holmes asked, though he kept his eyes on his rosin and bow.<p>

He paid such careful attention to each horsehair that his landlady looked around, as if expecting another man with his voice to materialize. When none appeared, she turned back to Sherlock.

"This isn't garlic. Come help me down." Dusting off her skirt, she looked at him expectantly until he nodded and moved over to her. After accepting the hand he offered to assist her off of the stepstool, she beamed at up at her handiwork.

She'd pinned it the top of the doorframe between kitchen and lounge, and her face was eloquent with excitement for the festive bunch of white berries and green leaves tied together with a shiny, red ribbon. She glanced over at Sherlock, to find his lip curled in mild distaste as he, too, studied the small-scale festoon (he'd drawn the line when she offered to bring in a 12-foot pine garland).

"Oh, Sherlock, lighten up," she laughed, reaching over to gently hit his shoulder. "When I was a girl, my mother would wake me up early in the morning on the Saturday before Christmas and we'd take the train out to Somerset. We'd hunt through all of the trees until we found a bunch. I always felt so proud, traveling back into the city with a basketful of the stuff, though people hardly paid us any mind."

Sherlock only glared some more.

Nostalgic, she considered the mistletoe. "And then we'd bundle little nosegays and hang it around the house. Always good for a laugh and a little romance."

"And you believe 221b is a fount of romantic activity?" he challenged.

"It _could_ be, if you'd find someone for yourself."

Ah, the subject that would haunt him for a myriad of reasons.

He whirled back to his violin, taking it up with a defiant flourish. "And now I _know_ you've been conspiring with my mother. Have fun trimming the tree." He screeched the bow along the violin's strings, but Mrs. Hudson paid him no mind, so he segued into a popular Christmas carol, transposed to a minor key so it sounded like a funeral dirge.

Mrs. Hudson's beatific smile remained. "Oh, that's lovely, but sad. Did you compose it?"

It never paid off to deliver a palpable musical hit when the recipient didn't have the sense to realize she'd been tone-struck. He set the violin down again. "Did you go to Somerset today to find your mistletoe?"

She laughed as if he'd asked if she'd conjured it with magic. "Dear me, no. I got it from that flower stand down the road. I passed it on the way home with some Christmas shopping this morning. I couldn't pass it up."

"Were you forced to buy it?"

"No, of course not," she frowned.

He sent her a supercilious look. "Then don't say you couldn't pass it up."

The whack on the arm she delivered would have brought on a pout had Mrs. Hudson not then thrust a coil of wires at him. "Hang these fairy lights above the mantle," she instructed.

Wisely, he complied without protest.

* * *

><p><strong><em>7<em>****_th_****_ December_**

* * *

><p>He forgot about the mistletoe. It wasn't difficult. He'd yet to witness the indignity of any forced kisses, and save for a peck on the cheek from Mrs. Hudson after finishing his fairy light assignment, he'd not had any reason to pay the sprig of berries any mind.<p>

Any winning streak has its end, though. His ended two days later.

At first he didn't recognize the person who wandered into his flat. The form was vaguely human, but it was completely bundled up in parka, muffler, gloves, and boots.

Just as he was about to inform the stranger that the Shackleton expedition would be leaving from Plymouth, not London, he recognized the cherry-red tip of a nose poking out from the many loops of scarf.

His lips curled in a slow smile.

"New coat, Molly?" he asked instead, amused as the figure now struggled to divest herself of her many layers of outerwear.

"No, but I rarely have a need for it," Molly Hooper explained as her head popped free of its many coils of scarf. "It's colder than a witch's ti…n out there," She looked relieved to have caught herself from making a vulgar faux pas after she'd spotted Mrs. Hudson, who'd stepped into the lounge to greet her.

"Funny," Mrs. Hudson mused thoughtfully. "I've always heard people say 'witch's tit', not 'tin'. Can't say what exactly makes a witch's tit cold, but there you are. How are you, dear?"

Shrugging, Molly accepted Mrs. Hudson's cheek buss, grinning at Sherlock over his landlady's shoulder. He realized he was smiling back far too enthusiastically, so he cleared his throat and busied himself with straightening his dressing gown.

"I came with those hair samples you wanted, Sherlock," Molly explained after she'd finished greeting Mrs. Hudson, who wandered off, muttering about sponging her cupboards.

He whirled around, excitement restored. "Excellent! And you brought—"

"Cat fur, dog fur, something that _might_ be donkey bristles or possibly kelp, six samples from human male cadavers, six from female cadavers, including one transgender woman who'd taken supplemental hormones for twenty years, and"—she wrinkled her nose—"hair from my own brush, though I don't actually understand why you need that."

"Hmm? Oh, I've used it as a control in the past," he said absently, bounding into the kitchen.

Though he'd noticed Molly's perturbed expression—likely trying to figure out when he'd have helped himself to shed hair caught in her brush's bristles—he didn't bother to explain. Instead, he held out his hand expectantly, sighing when she gave a small 'Oh' of realization and hurried back to her bag to pull out a container of specimen jars.

She returned, mimicking him with a gusty sigh of her own as she handed it over, her dimples fluttering as she fought a smile while they engaged in a small glaring contest.

When he felt his own, traitorous lips twitching, he looked down, snapping open the box's latches, extracting a carefully labeled jar, and holding it up against the kitchen light. "Curls. Dog. Did you accost some old lady on the square in front of your flat and help yourself to a hank of her beloved poodle's hair?" he asked conversationally, squinting in study.

Molly snorted. "Not far off. It was Mrs. Wormwood's schnoodle. It got out while she was yelling at some people delivering a Christmas tree. The thing hates me, but I lured it into my flat with an apple core and then pretended it'd slipped in while I was bringing in my post."

"Resourceful," he said approvingly as he leaned around the door to the lounge to extract a book from a teetering pile. He rested against the doorframe and flipped open the tome, certainly not lingering so he could smell the faint scent of fresh cold air that mingled with Molly's rosemary and lemon shampoo.

Shrugging modestly, she started to reply, but Mrs. Hudson's voice interrupted.

"Ah ha!" she shouted, reappearing from…well, Sherlock wasn't sure _where_ she'd been. She'd just rematerialized like an overly cheerful specter.

Both he and Molly turned to blink at her, confused by her exclamation and effusive pointing.

"What?" they asked in tandem.

Looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, Mrs. Hudson wiggled her fingers in the direction of the space above Molly's head.

She and Sherlock looked up. Molly had unwittingly stopped directly beneath the cheerful sprig of mistletoe when she'd moved to the kitchen with his samples.

Making a small noise of surprise, she slid to the side, out from under the festive symbol of sexual harassment known the Judeo-Christian, Western world over.

"Too late!" Mrs. Hudson crowed. "Once you've been spotted, you have to be kissed! Sherlock, kiss Molly."

Well, if she insist—no. Wait.

"Really, Mrs. Hudson," he scoffed, recovering. "It's a juvenile tradition. I'm not going to kiss Molly when she doesn't want me to."

The landlady rolled her eyes. "Well, of course not. Molly, do you want Sherlock to keep away and not kiss you?"

Molly's cheeks bloomed scarlet and she stuttered, "Erm, it's not that." And then she hastened to add, "But I don't think Sherlo—"

"And I notice you didn't say _you_ don't want to kiss _her_, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson barreled on.

He blanched and Molly laughed anxiously. She edged even further away and said, "I just remembered that I have a… food… in the hob at home. Must dash." Her cheeks remained rather fetchingly pink and he noticed her eyes darting to him before looking hurriedly away.

He'd only noticed, of course, because his eyes had been doing the same; glancing at her and then furiously moving to different spot before returning to peek at her again.

"Please, won't you humor an old lady?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice quavering, and she stooped slightly, suspiciously feeble.

He glanced at Molly. She looked back, breath held as if expecting him to refuse again. When he did no such thing, she stiltedly ducked her head in assent.

"Will you leave us alone to our experiment if we do?" he demanded, turning back to Mrs. Hudson and hoping he didn't look even remotely eager.

His landlady smirked, at once spry and hale again. "_Experiment_. Sure."

"So immature," he muttered, before turning back to his unenthusiastic Ladye Fayre.

Poor Molly. She hated feeling off stride or like everyone was watching her, waiting for her to do something. It would be best to get this over with, and quickly. In for a penny, as he absolutely never said. Reaching out, he hooked a hand around her wrist, gently tugging her forward. He met her underneath the hated mistletoe, nearly bumping into her as they stepped together.

He'd planned to aim for her right cheek, his go-to spot. Molly would expect it. But it was hardly where he'd wanted to try kissing her for more than a year and a half now, and something emboldened him, whether it was the way she was looking up at him with her soft brown eyes or the fact that her fresh-air/rosemary-lemon scent was even more noticeable up close.

Whatever it was, when he bent down to her, instead of kissing her cheek, his lips landed directly on hers.

It was chaste. Closed mouths slanted against each other and nothing more. Certainly, the fullness of her bottom lip fit perfectly into the natural space between his when his mouth took the shape of a kiss, and they moved fractionally to readjust. However, there was little sordidness about it.

So it caused Sherlock no small amount of consternation just how much his belly clenched the minute his mouth met hers, or before that, even, when he'd pulled her to him. Their contact did not last more than six seconds total, the kiss less than two when all was said and done, but his brain could catalog an awful lot in a short span of seconds. Like the thrum of her pulse, the softness of her lips, the slight smell and near taste of mint from her lip balm, the sound of air whooshing through her nose when they made contact, and the way a shiver—like an arc of electric current—moved through her to him when he kissed her.

Worried he'd stay frozen there endlessly, or worse, deepen the kiss, Sherlock drew back, frowning down at Molly. She frowned back. Clearly, she'd expected one of their formulaic cheek pecks of yore, just as he had right up until he'd detoured to her mouth.

Mrs. Hudson's happy clapping snapped their gazes away from each other. Sherlock jumped at the sudden interruption. Retracing what had just happened, he grew worried that he was experiencing "_senses blurring_" or some other schmaltz used to describe overcome lovers in the novels his father liked to read. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it), he could remember each and every millisecond with precise detail.

He scowled at Mrs. Hudson before snapping his head back to check on Molly. If possible, even more color stained her cheeks, and she swayed, discombobulated. Sherlock's pride leaned in, suggesting to him that he should be insulted that she hadn't swooned into his arms when their fleeting kiss ended.

He waved it away with an irritable, imaginary (slightly sulky) flick of his wrist. She had never swooned in her life, and even his ego conceded that she likely wouldn't start now.

Scratching at the back of his neck—hoping that the itch wasn't due to a blush of his own—he decided to put things back on firm, familiar ground.

"Now that we've satisfied your rubbernecking, Mrs. Hudson, may we get back to things that _matter_?"

Molly pulled in a deep breath and nodded eagerly while Mrs. Hudson cackled and waved them blithely away, a queen satisfied with her jesters' performance for the time being.

Ensconced back with the hair samples, Sherlock and Molly did not breathe a word of what had transpired. They managed not to behave too awkwardly, but that didn't mean Sherlock stopped thinking about it.

* * *

><p><strong><em>12<em>****_th _****_ December_**

* * *

><p>In fact, he didn't stop thinking about it for a nearly a week.<p>

He measured what had occurred, considering every angle of the situation. He mapped the minutes and hours leading up to it, wondering at all of the potential outcomes that _might_ have come to fruition had he done something differently. If he'd taken that petty theft case that rated a negative-one on the scale of intrigue, if he'd hurried off on 'errands' the moment Mrs. Hudson came staggering into his flat with her ladder and décor, or if Molly had told him to get his own sodding hair samples. Well, then, his time would still be his own. He wouldn't be so bloody preoccupied.

And then he'd rolled his eyes at the pointless what-ifs. It had happened. He'd kissed Molly Hooper. Now, all he'd really need to do about it was shrug it off and forget about it. Molly's reaction had hardly encouraged him to dwell, had it?

When he couldn't manage it, he decided that his problem had been just that: Molly's reticence. Years ago, she would have been willing and eager. Things had changed.

He needed to ascertain just out how she'd felt about it. Had it made things 'weird'? He was hardly a judge of that. He visited the morgue twice in that span of six days. They'd interacted normally and she certainly didn't seem to resent him. But had she hated it or had she been merely embarrassed by the circumstances? And, circumstances aside, had she _enjoyed_ it?

That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? He just didn't _know_.

Yes, Molly had let him kiss her, but she had also initially declined. She hadn't been swept up in a fit of passion when it happened. Worse, she had given no hint about her feelings for him throughout.

For all Sherlock knew, she could have recently met a toothsome Eastern European man or woman named Blažej [Slovak for 'babbler'; he wasn't feeling charitable about a potential suitor], who'd plied her with traditional Paprikáš. That shady character might even now be sizing up Molly's bank account for a doomed-to-fail goulash business and her uterus for a dozen children to work as free labor in the restaurant. And Molly could be gamely going along with it!

It was too horrid to consider, so he continued to do so until all twelve of Molly and Blažej's imaginary, future children had names.

Ultimately, it led to his conclusion that he was so flummoxed and out of sorts about it because The Incident had been far too short for any sort of reliable evaluation. How on earth was he supposed to know, when he'd not even been able to ask his research question and hypothesize beforehand? Sherlock Holmes would be remiss in calling himself a scientist if he dared offer any sort of conclusion with such poor methodology.

There was nothing for it. He'd need to repeat the experiment.

John's voice filtered in, blandly suggesting that Sherlock simply _ask_ Molly how she'd felt before, during, and after the kiss, but he waved it away for a bad job. Only John Watson would think _that_ would work.

He had a plan ready for execution within a week of The Incident.

**…****  
>Problem<strong>: Sherlock Holmes wanted to kiss Molly Hooper.

**Question**: Did Molly Hooper want to kiss Sherlock Holmes?  
><strong>…<strong>

It wouldn't do to have Mrs. Hudson there, fluttering around, offering to measure them for wedding trousseau. To take care of that, he'd blocked his mobile's number and rung her, speaking in a high falsetto, pretending to be Mrs. Turner from next door. He'd concocted a—rather brilliant and convincing, if you asked him—story about the neighbor getting stranded out in Cheam with five holiday hams and needing dear, sweet Martha's help getting home with them all.

Mrs. Hudson had remained silent on the other end of the line for so long, he'd started to worry that his mobile had died mid-call. Just as he was pulling it away from his ear to verify, however, he heard Mrs. Hudson assure _Edwina_ that she'd be there presently. He merrily gave her vague directions to a random high street shop. It was only a matter of waiting for the sound the front door closing and the sight of his landlady hurrying off towards the Tube station from his window.

Phase One accomplished, he'd summoned his partner for this particular experiment.

**…**  
><strong>Materials Needed<strong>: Mistletoe  
><strong>Test Subjects<strong>: One Molly Hooper, one Sherlock Holmes. Easily procured.  
><strong>…<strong>

When Molly arrived, she didn't look thrilled to have been frantically hailed for something 'desperately urgent', only to discover Sherlock calmly reading over old case notes, barefoot and in a dressing gown.

"I just got free of an eighteen-hour shift, Sherlock," she said tetchily. "What's wrong?"

"Lovely to see you, too, Molly," he sniffed. "As I said, I require your assistance."

She raised her eyebrows, waiting.

His mind blanked momentarily and he floundered, trying to remember his brilliant plan. Just as he began to despair, it returned.

"Turgidity!" he shouted, leaping up and bounding towards the kitchen.

Molly started at his exclamation but followed him. She looked even more confused. "Turgidity? What's turgid?"

Any number of juvenile replies might have spilled from Sherlock's mouth at that. Even he could make penile jokes when the mood struck (or when he was out of his element, as it were). Instead he maintained a sober expression and stuck to his plan.

"Turgor pressure of apple and potato skins. I need to test them. A man's _life_ depends on it." He kept his expression earnest, sure that batting his lashes would rope her in. He waved vaguely to a bowl of fruit and tubers that he'd dumped on the table in preparation for her arrival.

Molly frowned. "I'm not a botanist. I don't remember much about plant cell biology."

Sherlock made sure to look put out as he carefully situated himself _just so_ under the doorjamb. "Oh, really?"

"Really. Do _you _know much about it?"

Pursing his lips ruefully, he shook his head. "I was hoping you would have the know-how. You're younger than I, so I hoped your uni courses might be fresher. And you medical professionals do have more of a varied scientific background in your postgraduate work."

"Sorry."

"Oh well!" he said breezily. "I'll just look it up on the internet. Fancy a cuppa?"

"I thought a man's life depended on your experiment."

Dismissing it with a floppy wave, he wrinkled his nose. "I'm sure he has a good barrister. Tea?"

Too used to Sherlock's dramatics, she shrugged. "Sure. I've not had any caffeine today and I'm gasping for it."

"Vasoconstriction from the caffeine will probably make you more breathless," he supplied helpfully, fully aware that she would know the effects of caffeine. He had to behave naturally, though. Pedantry was a must. "But I'm happy to assis—oh, damn!" he exclaimed dramatically.

Really, actors thought this was hard? He was practically Linus Olivier.

"What?" she asked, alarmed once more by his shouting.

Sherlock grudgingly gestured to the doorframe, and the mistletoe that he'd _just happened_ to stand beneath. "I just keep forgetting it's there. It's so ridiculous."

She flushed at the literally pointed reminder of her last time at the flat. "You know you don't _have_ to observe the tradition, don't you?" she mumbled.

"Of course I don't _have _to, but Mrs. Hudson is just so pleased by it. She keeps spouting drivel about her childhood and her mother and whatnot. She's been rather good to me, so I hate to disappoint her."

Molly expression grew concerned. "Is she here?" she whispered, looking around, possibly expecting Mrs. Hudson to pop out of the fireplace and demand more kissing entertainment.

He tried to appear haunted, wizened. "One can never tell. She's been wandering in an out all evening, putting some of my washing away."

Molly didn't argue. Instead, she gave a small cough and studied her feet. "So you… you want me to kiss you to appease Mrs. Hudson, who may or may not be up here?"

Ruefully, he nodded. "Just in case."

"If you think it'd help," she capitulated, stuffing her hands into her trouser pockets and shuffling up to him.

**…****  
>Hypothesis<strong>: Molly Hooper wanted to kiss him, too  
><strong>…<strong>

Sherlock didn't give her a chance to reconsider. Quick as flash, his arms shot out and hauled her to him. Having Molly against him—one of his feet insinuated between hers so their chests and legs were flush together—made their minuscule contact from the week before seem downright monkish.

He studied her, noting the hitch of her breath, the way her pupils dilated (to focus on his face after the distance between them narrowed? Arousal?), and the tentative hold of her hands as her fingers curled around his biceps.

**…****  
>Observation One<strong>: He had her attention  
><strong>…<strong>

Winding his arms tighter around her and digging the pads of his fingers into her shoulder and hip, he sucked in a deep breath and swooped in.

He kissed her firmly and thoroughly, leaving nothing to chance as far as discerning all reactions and results.

**…****  
>Observation<strong> **Two**: Her lips had been stiff, hardly puckered to receive him. But the more he kissed her, the more mobile and responsive they became. They parted beneath his readily, and her fingers convulsed when he swiped his tongue along her bottom lip.  
><strong>…<strong>

He continued. Her hands held fast to his arms, fingers still clutching tightly. She returned every overture of his, sparking tiny shocks across his skin each time he acknowledged, encouraged, and reciprocated. He shifted his hold around her and traced the tip of her tongue with his.

**…****  
>Observation Three<strong>: As the kiss stretched past the minute mark, he could hear the breaths she pulled in through her nose quicken in concert with the fervor of her mouth against his.  
><strong>…<strong>

It astonished him that they could breathe at all. His attention to her was so singular, it felt like even his autonomic nervous system should say, _No time for any of this involuntary muscle movement nonsense._

He moved a hand up to brush through her soft hair, and noticed that she made a small noise when he rubbed his thumb and forefinger in a tiny massage at the base of her skull. So he did it again, following her mouth with his when her head dropped back on a whimper.

**…****  
>Observation<strong> **Four**: He was aroused. Excited, but in a gentle way. It left his chest slightly aching.  
><strong>…<strong>

Murkily, he remembered that he wasn't supposed to be examining _his_ feelings. He knew his own mind, after all.

Before he could refocus his scrutiny, however, Molly sighed and broke away. She pulled back enough that she could speak clear of his lips while her heavy eyes blinked open.

"Will that do?" she whispered, dark irises so close that he could see previously overlooked flecks of gold in the thin bands of brown.

He stared, dazed. "What?" His voice rumbled in his chest, much lower than his usual timbre.

"To please Mrs. Hudson," and when he still stared, she added, "your landlady." Her voice was tantalizingly breathy, and he promised to make note of it later in his wash-up of observations. Not now, though. He was too ensnared and it took him a second to remember his ruse.

"Oh. Yes. The landlady. The landlady who wanders in here. The landlady who wants people to kiss under her mistletoe. I doubt she saw. She'd be squawking with glee if she had."

Molly bit her [swollen] lip. "So it was all for nothing, I guess," she said with a halting laugh.

_Well, that stings a bit_, Sherlock admitted to himself, though he nodded in agreement.

No matter, though. It was a scientist's privilege to determine which outliers to ignore in favor of the preponderance of favorable data.

Distracted, he mumbled a goodbye to a dazed, tousled Molly when she saw herself out scant minutes later.

No matter what she'd said, her behavior during the kiss and expression after were not those of a person who'd been terribly upset by the turn of events, or of a person fretting over betraying her Czech lover, for that matter.

It was time to move on to new parameters: no science as an enticement, and, most importantly, no Mrs. Hudson (Real or Imagined) and her nostalgia. After all, he'd lured Molly into the kiss under, if not false pretenses, exaggerated ones. He required verification that she would kiss him if something else spurred her on beyond the influence of one, old lady.

* * *

><p><strong><em>19<em>****_th_****_ December_**

* * *

><p>Sherlock did not <em>do<em> holiday parties. He did not eagerly dress in snazzy clothes with jaunty Christmas socks in anticipation of drunken acquaintances trying to lure him into dancing, schmoozing, and/or trysts. When he'd found his annual invitation to the NSY do in a pile of post on the sideboard in Mrs. Hudson's foyer, he'd tossed it into one of her many potted plants and promptly forgotten about it.

He would have been content for it to remain forgotten, were it not for an innocent aside from Gill Lestrade that Molly would be there. Even then, his interest was more of a flicker than an avid 180˚ turnaround. It wasn't until the morning of the party, when he glanced up as he wandered out of his kitchen and put eyes on the mistletoe, that the party's potential occurred to him.

Staring at the berries and leaves, chewing a piece of toast thoughtfully, Sherlock changed his mind. The NSY people would love it if he made an appearance. He'd do so many people a favor by attending; most importantly, himself.

Not because he _wanted_ to attend. Not at all. He merely required an excuse to get Molly back to his flat that night for further observation, and not for the reasons he'd previously used.

Scientific methodology dictated ruling out external stimuli that might influence a hypothetical outcome.

**…****  
>External Stimulus Eliminated<strong>: Science Experiments.  
><strong>Question to Answer<strong>: Did science and nothing else make Molly Hooper amenable to kissing?  
><strong>Expected Outcome<strong>: Science or knowledge thereof, whilst scintillating topics of conversation, were not influences on Molly Hooper's libido.  
><strong>ExplanationJustification for Expected Outcome (AKA Researcher's Bias)**: One need only look at Molly Hooper's ex-fiancé. That man wouldn't know science if it walked up to him, slapped a glove in his face, and challenged him to a duel at dawn in Regent's Park.  
><strong>…<strong>

The timing also proved fortuitous. Mrs. Hudson would be gone to Bath for a mini holiday with some friends.

**…****  
>External Stimulus Eliminated<strong>: The Landlady.  
><strong>Question to Answer<strong>: Did the presence of one Martha Hudson (or her _imaginary_ presence, as it happened last week) and her sentiments act as impetus for the kissing?  
><strong>Expected Outcome<strong>: Inconclusive.  
><strong>…<strong>

That evening, Sherlock strode into the party, forcibly restraining a sneer as he observed all of the people wandering around in tinsel headbands and Santa hats. He gladly handed off his coat to a hired coat check station and moved into the melee to find his friends. He didn't have to look long before he recognized the back of Lestrade's head. The D.I. was having a conversation with Sally Donovan, who spotted Sherlock approaching.

"Don't look now, Greg, but the coal in my stocking just arrived."

"Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock greeted. He'd been making a concerted effort not to antagonize her. He doubted she'd ever like him, but it made working for the Met far more pleasant when they were in unspoken accord to treat each other professionally. Usually.

"What're you doing here?" Lestrade asked, amazed.

Sherlock puffed out an aggrieved sigh. "John begged me to come. Something about him and Mary lurking here, feeling awkward."

Donovan's laugh couldn't be described as flattering. "Oh, yes, look at how miserable the poor things are without you." She pointed to a break in the crowd, through which the Watsons could be seen amid a small group of Met police with whom he and John had worked in the past. John said something that made everyone grin and chuckle, and Mary added something else that sent audible laughter over the live band's off-key warbling.

Sherlock glowered, first at his unwitting, turncoat friends and then at Sally. "They don't know their own charms. Who else is here?"

"Well," Lestrade drawled, "most of the force not currently on duty."

"I mean people I know," Sherlock said peevishly, but he quickly regained his composure. "Like Anderson or Dimmock. Or Molly." He casually stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"I've not seen Phillip. Dimmock transferred to East Riding, as you well know. But Molly's over there in that crowd with the Wallflower Watsons."

Ignoring Sally's mild jibe, Sherlock twirled back around, squinting. He didn't see her at first, but a taller man swayed to the side and he could just make out the top of a short person's head. It had to be Molly.

_Ah ha._ Eagerness abounded, but he pushed it back.

"I guess I'd better to save them all from withering away into obscurity," he said, but he found himself smiling the tiniest bit at Donovan as he spoke.

"You're a hero, alright," she agreed.

Moving away, he sauntered casually over to the group. Sherlock confirmed that it was, in fact, Molly with them. His limbic system sent a series of chemicals coursing through him when he got a clear view, eliciting any number of uncharacteristic happy and excited sensations when he fully saw her face.

He comforted himself with the reminder that there were much worse people to have involuntary, warm emotional reactions to than Molly Hooper.

Circling around to the far side of the group, he moved in.

John's head tilted in surprise and near-disbelief when Sherlock sidled up alongside Molly. "You're here. You came to a party not being held in _your_ flat."

"I'm full of surprises," Sherlock deadpanned. He nodded in greeting to everyone else, murmuring, "Molly," when he reached her.

She smiled up at him, but looked down to disguise a blush. He felt a twinge of delight at her shy behavior. If she'd beamed and started chattering, it would mean she wasn't thinking about the fact that they'd kissed twice in the last two weeks.

Yes, so far, things were going rather favorably.

Deciding it was time to begin his controlled observations, Sherlock placed a hand casually on Molly's back, looking chummy.

**…****  
>Observation Five<strong>: Molly made a small noise of surprise when he touched her shoulder blade. Her muscles tensed and then relaxed one by one, as if she were talking herself down.  
><strong>…<strong>

"I'm going to fetch a drink. Anyone need a top-up?" Sherlock asked the group at large, keeping his hand on her.

"That's awfully nice of you, Sherlock." Mary's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch? What do you need?"

He glared at her, wholly offended. "No catch! I don't need anything. I was just making an offer out of… Christmas Spirit and Good Cheer or whatever."

"The 'whatever' is what worries me," she replied suspiciously.

He rolled his eyes. "I don't know what I've done to deserve this"—and when everyone in the group (Molly included, he noticed with consternation) opened their mouths to offer examples, he hurried on—"and I'm insulted by the insinuation that I'm here for anything other than the bonhomie of the evening."

"The fact that you just said you came to a partyfor the _bonhomie_ doesn't inspire confidence," his traitorous best friend pointed out.

"I could use a drink. I'll take a Smith and Kerns," Molly cut in, recognizing the makings of a row.

Sherlock beamed at her gratefully. It almost made him feel bad that is friends were right not to believe him, and that Molly should be the most suspicious of them all. He was there for her.

It was such a relief to have the justification that he was experimenting _with_ her, not _on_ her. Really, he was just as much a guinea pig as she. A guinea pig who knew his half of the outcome, but nevertheless.

Trotting off to fetch their drinks, Sherlock darted a glance behind him. John was patting Molly's shoulder with an expression that clearly said, _You poor, innocent lamb_. Mary, meanwhile, stared after him. He started to look away, but his eyes narrowed. She no longer looked suspicious. No, now she was smirking.

A brief sensation of alarm electrified him, but he coaxed himself to calm down. Whatever she thought Sherlock was up to would be incorrect.

When had Mary Watson, née Morstan, ever been right about _anything_, really?

* * *

><p>Sherlock timed it perfectly. As soon as people started to trickle out—there was only so much fun to be at a three hour cocktail party—he turned to the Watsons, Molly, and Lestrade, who'd joined them a quarter of an hour ago and clapped his hands together.<p>

"Looks like the din is clearing out. Shall we go to Baker Street for a nightcap?"

"Oh God. You've booby-trapped the place," John said, horrorstruck.

"What? No!" he sputtered. "Give it a rest, John. I just thought I'd offer drinks to my friends. I have acknowledged that you all are my friends in the past. This is hardly news." _Ha! Take that, you quisling_.

John weighed his words, looking for a flaw. When he couldn't find it, he shrugged and turned to the others. "A nightcap sounds good, eh?

They all piled into a taxi and good fortune remained on Sherlock's side, as he had the pleasure of sitting wedged between the cab's door on one side and Molly on the other. He worked hard not to stare at her thighs, put on display after her jacquard pencil skirt rode up when she sat down.

He didn't think he was imagining the briefest glimpse of garters, and he decided it would be important to get confirmation some other way. The way his night was going, Molly might end up whispering in his ear that she needed his assistance in reattaching one at the back of her leg that had popped loose…. Stranger things had happened: he'd found his favorite socks in their indexed spot after he thought them lost forever, his mother had rung to sadly inform him that she and his father were spending Christmas in Oklahoma, and his enterobacteria were coming in nicely in an anaerobic environment with little prodding from him.

Everything was coming up Sherlock.

Busy congratulating himself on his triumphs, Sherlock only noticed the taxi had stopped in front of 221 Baker Street when Molly's hand darted out and poked him. She snapped it back immediately after, like a person prodding a hornet's nest to see if had any occupants.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her. "I don't bite." His voice came out in a purr and her eyes widened in return.

_Excellent_.

"We're home. Your home. We're here," she said, tripping over her words with each clarification.

"Jolly good!" he exclaimed, immediately regretting his choice of words. All atwitter just because she'd slipped and called Baker Street 'home'.

Molly might have been equally perturbed by his impression of an Oxford punter, but she shook her head and scooted across the bench seat.

Luck remained on Sherlock's side. Just as he prepared to trail her out of the car, it lurched forward several feet and just as quickly came to a halt. The momentum sent Molly tumbling back, but Sherlock had already slid into the seat she'd vacated. She landed in his lap.

His hands stayed on her thighs, where they'd moved to brace her when the car had moved, and they sat there, stunned for several beats.

**…**  
><strong>Observation<strong> **Six**: Garters, indeed.  
><strong>…<strong>

"Sorry, sorry!" cried the cabbie. "Foot slipped off the brake."

All was right with the world as far as Sherlock was concerned, so he kindly waved the apology away. He sat there, basking in the warm body on top of his.

It was only when Molly turned her head and whispered that they should get out of the cab that he helped her stand back up. Even that loss of contact couldn't tarnish his good mood, and he tipped the driver generously when he handed off the pounds for the ride.

John had already found the liquor by the time Sherlock and Molly made it upstairs.

"Whiskey on the rocks for both you?" he called through the kitchen entry.

They nodded, but Molly's was cut off short when Sherlock's hands curled over her shoulders to pull her coat free. She jumped and then laughed nervously.

"Sorry," he murmured, close enough to her ear to engender some intimacy in the words, but not so close as to provoke a comment from Mean Mary. Sherlock would remain one step ahead of her, he assured himself.

Molly, for her part, was unsure of what to do. She nodded—more a tip of the chin than anything else—before clearing her throat and smiling. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said politely.

"Anytime," he promised, looking at her as pointedly as he dared.

Her eyes widened a fraction, they stared at each other for a pregnant moment, and then she spun around to the room at large and loudly announced, "I performed a post-mortem today on a woman who was mistakenly given TPN intravenously instead of into her feeding tube."

"What's TPN?" Lestrade said, his face awash with regret for asking even as he said them.

"Someone basically pumped an IV bag full of Fortisip or Ensure into the woman's bloodstream," she explained. "Sort of gives new meaning to 'feeding up', doesn't it?"

Lestrade and John grimaced, but Mary cackled and Sherlock choked on a laugh. Molly smiled at them all but he spotted her watching him through her lashes. A pleased flush rose up the back of her neck.

He wanted to kiss that blush, feel the heat at the nape of her neck against his lips.

_Stop_, he scolded himself.

**…****  
>Observation Seven: <strong>Molly still cared about his regard for her.  
><strong>…<strong>

Drink in hand, Sherlock began his calculated approach to the mistletoe.

He conversed with Molly, asking her about her TPN patient while he moved slowly, casually through the lounge so she would have to walk with him. He stopped a few feet away from his ultimate destination.

If she noticed where they were headed, she gave no indication and instead chattered on about enteral feeding tubes. Sherlock made sure to shift on his feet and turn to glance around the room. As he did so, he stepped further and further back, and Molly shifted along with him. Just as he'd hoped she wood.

It was John who ultimately put the pair right on Sherlock's invisible bull's eye, when his friend asked to be let through to the kitchen to get some crisps out of the cupboard. Sherlock graciously stepped out of the way, taking Molly by the elbow and gently pulling her over with him.

And then he waited.

It didn't take long. In fact, it was only a matter of a minute before Mary walked by and said, in the smuggest tone possible, "Mistletoe."

Molly looked up sharply, only then comprehending where she and Sherlock now stood. To her credit, she did not pinken nearly as much as before, and Sherlock wasn't completely certain, but he thought he saw her eyes narrow in consideration as she stared at him.

"Well?" Mary called from over by the sink, where she leaned with a glass of water.

"Well, what?" Molly shot back, delightfully saucy as she turned back to the other woman.

Mary smiled, slowly, the cat that'd caught the canary. "We're all waiting."

Sherlock casually turned and scanned the room with an arched brow. Lestrade and John were busy pouring out another finger of whisky and discussing over-militarization, paying no mind to the other three in the flat. He returned his gaze to Mary, eyebrow arched.

"Well, the only person who _matters_ is waiting," she clarified, bowing her head graciously. "Pucker up, you two."

"Mary," John called, noticing the tableau, "my pet, why are you telling Molly and Sherlock to pucker up?"

Mary grinned. "Sherlock has landed himself under a bundle of mistletoe. I think you will join me in wanting them to adhere to such a time-honored tradition."

John blinked, glancing from Mary to Sherlock to Molly, and back again. "Why would I want that?"

His wife shrugged shamelessly. "It feels festive, doesn't it? And we can all remember that one time that our friends, Sherlock and Molly, locked lips."

"Who said it was just the one time?"

Everyone, even Sherlock, goggled at Molly. She looked back at each of them in turn, insouciantly biting a Maraschino flavored cherry off of the toothpick that John had stuck in each of their whisky tumblers.

Sherlock's heart kicked up in a faster beat and he waited to see what Molly Hooper would do next.

"What?" Lestrade and John asked, practically in unison.

She shrugged. "We've had a couple of go-rounds with the mistletoe, already. Pretty soon they'll start to blur together. Wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?"

He shook himself out of his stupor and nodded wordlessly.

"Damn it," Mary muttered, disappointed that she wasn't witnessing something rare and unique, like two unicorns mating in a glen.

Molly continued, "To the point that it's _almost_ suspicious. Almost as if the fact that we keep ending up in this spot were something pre-arranged."

_Just once_, Sherlock nearly exclaimed, but he caught himself in time. Instead he lifted a shoulder in dismissal. "That's a theory."

"A theory?" she challenged. "Are we talking the theory like evolution, or theory like, 'miasma gives us the Black Plague'?"

"Either could prove false," he parried.

"But one is more likely not to," she shot back. "Theory's a rather loaded word in the hands of the uniformed. So basically, just like evolution, my _theory_ is correct, isn't it?"

"Well," he said, floundering, "in this case we're _both_ right."

"How so?"

"The first foray under the mistletoe wasn't arranged," he said in a rush, hardly separating his words.

"Ah ha!" Molly jabbed a triumphant finger at him. "So you admit the second one and now are both situations manipulated by you."

He shuffled his feet, acutely aware of everyone's eyes one him, though the others of the party watched Molly in equal turn, like in a tennis match. "'Manipulated' is such a strong word."

Mary snorted over by the sink and John sighed loudly. Lestrade just looked on with an avid grin on his face.

Molly, meanwhile, stood there, waiting.

"It was an experiment!" he finally explained.

Her face became guarded, and she no longer looked playful. "What kind of experiment?"

_She thinks I was testing something else, nothing do with _feelings_. _He shook his head and held up an entreating hand. "I was trying to see if you _want_ to kiss me."

He half expected cartoonish cricket chirps to fill the flat, it was so silent. When no insects chimed in an nobody yelled at him, he cracked an eye open, only then realizing that he'd shut them while he waited for Molly's reaction. He could see nothing but her dumbfounded face.

"You wanted to know how I feel for you?" she translated.

Miserably, he nodded.

She opened and closed her mouth several times before managing to respond. "Sherlock, why didn't you just _ask_ me?"

"John suggested it," he admitted.

"I did?" John asked, squinting to find a nonexistent memory.

Sherlock waved him away. "Not you. John in my—Never mind. I'm not easy with words, Molly. How do you ask a person if they still have romantic feelings for you, especially after everything you have put up with from me?"

She smiled slightly at that. "I think that's part of the whole cliché of 'putting yourself out there.'"

His face scrunched with distaste. "That sounds like an utter hell."

Molly nodded. "It can be. Especially if the object of your affection is oblivious to your intentions. Sometimes that's even harder than a concrete rejection. Because then you start reading into everything, cataloging observations in your mind"—Sherlock shifted and cleared his throat—"and you never feel certain. Which is why it's sometimes better and kinder to yourself to find out in one fell swoop."

He was chagrined, deflated, unsure of himself, and it was mortifying, "I take it the mistletoe was a misstep all around, then?"

She frowned. "What would you have done when the mistletoe is gone? If you never planned to ask me, what could you possibly glean when you manipulated—"

"I prefer 'persuaded the outcome,'" he interrupted.

"When you 'persuaded the outcome' of our interactions?" she asked, biting her lip to stop a smile. He didn't want to find an iota of relief from that half smile, but he did.

He couldn't deny the truth in her words, either. Damn it, she had a point.

"Molly," he began carefully, but she held up a staying hand.

She closed the distance between them and rose up onto tiptoe. The kiss she pressed to his cheek only grazed the corner of his mouth, but his breath caught harshly when she did it. Pulling away, she moved to whisper in his ear.

"We will talk, but I'd rather have privacy for it."

Nerves danced while he nodded.

"What'd you say? What's going on? Am I going to have to pull out my nice suit again for a wedding? Will there be an open bar?" Lestrade's voice severed any lingering feelings of intimacy, and Sherlock was swamped with relief for Molly's practicality. He'd put on enough of a show for the night.

Everyone left not long after, likely disappointed that they'd had their entertainment cut short. Served them right.

He sat in front of the fire late into the night, swirling ice cubes in his tumbler. He didn't know _why_, but he wasn't dispirited. He didn't dread his conversation with Molly. In fact, as he remembered her thumb stroking back and forth over his as she pulled away from whispering in his ear, he experienced the oddest sensation of _hope._

* * *

><p><strong><em>24<em>****_th_****_ December_**

* * *

><p>Of all of the times for an obligatory case to pull Sherlock out of town (someday, Mycroft would consider all of the aid he'd given his younger brother paid in full), the day after the NSY party might have been the worst. While he was able to solve the mystery, secure his payment, and return to London in a matter of days, he never tamped down his impatience while he worked.<p>

He'd had the wherewithal to know that Molly wouldn't care to have an important conversation like the one that loomed before them via text message, so he only sent her two messages to bookend his case: one to explain his sudden departure, and the other that simply read, "I'm home –S".

And then he waited. If ever there was a time to let Molly Hooper set the pace, this would be it. It was late, and the next day was Christmas. He might not hear from her until after the holiday.

He was afraid he might have to.

He didn't have to dwell with his nerves for very long after that, however. One hour after he hit the send button on the SMS, he recognized her footfalls racing up the stairs.

Moving into the lounge, he waited for her by the sofa, clenching and relaxing his hands at his sides.

It had started snowing. He hadn't realized it until Molly came through the door, the heavy flakes still in her hair and on her clothes. Throwing her coat on the rack, she turned to face him only for a moment, long enough to hold up a finger to stop him from speaking.

Obediently, he watched her as she hurried through to the kitchen to grab one of the chairs from the table.

She deposited it in the doorway and clambered up onto it. Even with the chair's two feet of clearance off of the ground, she still had to stand on tiptoe to reach the mistletoe nosegay. Sherlock started to suggest that he help when she yanked it down.

Jumping back to the floor, Molly turned and, without any ceremony whatsoever, shucked the mistletoe into the fire. Its berries began sizzling immediately, but she'd already moved on.

Just as quickly as everything else she'd done since arriving, she hurried back across the room to Sherlock, eyes intent on him. When she reached where he stood, she took his face in both of her hands and swiftly pulled him down to her, rising up onto her toes again, her lips ready and waiting to meet his halfway.

He gasped against her mouth, stunned, but he recovered quickly enough to band his arms around her and drag her against him. She made a soft, low sound of approval, and moved her own arms around his neck.

While their mouths moved together, his hands stroked across her hips, up and down the length of her back, and over the cool damp of her hair. The snowflakes had melted. It was a fanciful surprise that their vestigial water droplets didn't sizzle against his skin, much like the mistletoe berries in the fire.

And then the next time he gained awareness of anything beyond Molly, he'd backed her up against a wall, his body pressed fully to hers. Their lips were swollen and raw and Molly had stubble burn all around her mouth, smattered over her cheeks, down to her neck and across her upper chest.

He'd stretched her jumper over her shoulder, possibly beyond repair, he noticed with absolutely no remorse. It only seemed fair, when a glance down confirmed that he was short one button on his shirt and he had a love bite on his collarbone coming in rather floridly.

"Either this is the answer to the question I didn't get to ask," he said, lips brushing against hers while he spoke, "or you have a very strange way of turning your wooers down."

"Your brand of wooing is strange." She leaned forward and kissed him again, adorably chaste, considering how mussed they now were after their full-on snog. "Just to clarify, though: any time you want to kiss me, you don't have to manhandle me under or lurk around mistletoe. You can just ask. Unless I'm dealing with necrotic flesh, chances are, I'll be thrilled to comply."

"Very well," Sherlock shot her an officious look. He suspected he had her lip gloss smeared around his mouth and he caught sight of his hair in his periphery, waving around wildly, finger-combed into a voluminous bush. No matter, though. It'd only get worse. "Kiss me again, Molly."

"I said ask, not demand," she reminded him with a tickling pinch to his waist, before primly adding, "Though, that does have its place."

They shared delighted grins while he stroked his fingers on the sensitive skin of her lower back under her shirt. "I actually have several questions. You're good with words, so it'll be… fascinating to hear your answers."

She waggled her eyebrows. "I do love to teach." She tried to look sultry, but she lost her composure and began laughing until she pressed her face to his chest and hugged him, instead.

Disgustingly content, he whispered to her, "Would you kiss me again, please?"

"Well, now that you mention it," Molly said, mouth curving in a dangerous smile as she brought her lips to his once more.

* * *

><p><strong>Conclusion Based on Observable Data (also, Molly Hooper's presence in Researcher's bed on Christmas Morning)<strong>: Summation would be redundant. Practical application spoke for itself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2:** For those not familiar with the myth: when she learned that the death of Baldr (son of Frigg and Odin and brother to Chris Hemsworth) would serve as the impetus for Ragnarok, Frigg went around Yggdrasil and asked all of nature not to harm her son. Unfortunately, she forgot to ask the mistletoe.

Like all good theological stories, we flash forward several years. Baldr grew up used to the other Aesir throwing things at him for fun. I guess it was top-notch entertainment to watch everything veer away from him at the last second. Anyway, enter this decrepit, blind god named Hod and the nefarious Tom Hiddloki. Somehow, Loki got wind of Baldr's unfortunate achilles heel (or maybe Achilles' heel was his Baldr's Mistletoe... huh), and he convinced poor, blind Hod to shuck some mistletoe at poor, unsuspecting Baldr. Short story long, Baldr died a rather anticlimactic death, Ragnarok happened, and it was lame for all except Loki. But even he ended up piloting a ship made of dead people's fingernails, which seems like a dubious honor to me.


End file.
